It is easy to lose yourself in a crowd
of faceless people but I tend to lose
track of myself between the couch
cushions, like spare change, or
underneath my bed, with old books
that smell of cobwebs and wasted breath.
I shed skin cells like it's a trend
but I miss those invisible creatures
because when I come out of the shower,
all scrubbed and hairless, I am not sure
who I am looking at anymore.
Sometimes I don't even see my reflection.
Maybe that explains why people
forget to call, maybe it's not forgetting
at all. Maybe I am sitting here in my
chair but as a ghost. Maybe I haven't
been alive for years but people keep
talking to me, feeding the obsession
because they can't deal with the fact
that I'm not here, although I think that's a lie,
they can, they just sense my ghost lingers
because of unfinished business and
want a chance to catch up.
Sometimes I wonder why people leave.
Why do they pack their lives up in
24x24 inch boxes, stuff them in the back
of a car, and drive off? They don't even
look back. I watch them file out one by one
like a line of ants off to work but I know
they won't come back to the hill.
I am the queen, left stationary but in solitude.
I'd like to draw a line down my body,
cut it in half, separate myself from the
part of me that longs for human contact
and the other that would let me wander freely,
no guilt attached. I would gather the part
that does not give a damn up in my arms,
stuff it in a suitcase, and take it on the train
with me as I find a new home, where
people don't forget and there's always
someone there to say good morning
and good night to. But wanderers can only
claim parts of places; they will never find
home again because they no longer
feel a connection to the place they ran from
and will never feel at home in the new place.
So I'll adopt a new place to stay and exchange
it for something else when I am restless again.
It seems to work for most, so why shouldn't it for me?